Everton 3 Reading 1

fellaini_reading

That’s right, 3-1 to the tricky Blues. Smell my cheese you mother.

On a proper spring-in-your-step as you slalom through the Cammell Lairds on Goodison Road kind of afternoon, Everton did their thing against probably the worst team they have faced at home all season. Reading are absolutely shite and their manager looks like that stupid arl fella who used to be on Coronation Street back when the worst thing Kevin Webster had ever done was let a mate’s car pass a borderline MOT.

Both sides fielded their reserve goalkeepers and Everton were further weakened only moments into the game when a challenge by horrible little shitbag Adam Le Fondre left Phil Jagielka with a cut on his ankle that will see him miss next Saturday’s FA Cup quarter-final against Wigan Athletic. Brian McDermott says that Le Fondre isn’t the sort of player who would deliberately ‘do’ someone, which may well be the case. However, he definitely is the sort of player who when he was a big fucking deal at Rotherham answered his phone and denied actually being himself to someone who had spoken to him a mere couple of hours earlier and arranged to do an interview.

The obnoxious little cunt.

Anyway, Jagielka is out, leaving us with the tantalising prospect of John Heitinga marking the ‘bustling’ Aroune Kone next week. Please note that it’s John from now on, as he lost the right to be on ‘Johnny’ terms when he lay on the floor play-acting in this match and chose to see the charade through to its bitter end rather than get up and try to defend when the referee waved play on. Reading almost ‘fashioned’ an opening, with the game at 2-0, and Sylvain Distin looked embarrassed for his teammate as he half-heartedly berated the official.

Most of the first-half was crap. The majority of the Everton side played as if they had chronic sunburn. Only Kevin Mirallas and Seamus Coleman – players who have had enforced rest due to injury – looked at all fresh. The majority of the rest looked as if they were willing to move a bit if the ball was near them, but by jingo they weren’t just legging around making mad runs for any bleeder.

Their initial lethargy was almost punished too when Le Fondre – if footballing luminaries like Jamie Redknapp and, erm, Clive Platt and Ben Burgess can be civil and professional then you certainly should be, fucking no-mark – almost splintered the frame of the Gwladys Street goal with a shot from 18 yards out.

As the half ‘developed’ though, Everton began to work out their kinks and stretch the visitors. Who were shit, remember. Mirallas is beginning to look ominous every time he gets the ball while Coleman was at his energetic best. The Irish fullback definitely has ‘something’ and when he’s playing well there are few players in the Premier League who make going past opponents look so straightforward.

On 42 minutes he burst down the right and flung a cross over to the far post where Marouane Fellaini crashed home a brilliant header. There was still time as well for him to force a save from Stuart Taylor with an audacious shot from out near the touchline that almost nobody who likes a pint saw until Match of the Day.

Speaking of half-time beverages, in this day and age how is it that the catering at the match is still such a shoddy, unsatisfactory experience? You feel for the poor kids getting paid buttons to do the serving when, during the 15 minutes per fortnight when they are quite busy, they are hamstrung by ‘the gas going’. Again. The captive audience at the game would willingly overpay for something approaching adequate service and yet very few clubs seem to have the imagination to ‘exploit’ that fact fully. It’s pitiful, but it’s clear they reason that they get handed a ton of money from that stupid television contract so why would they make an effort to try and do a decent job of something that nets them peanuts in comparison?

Sort it out Moyes.

Reading almost caught Everton cold straight after the break – apparently, see above – but their spirit was finally crushed on 58 minutes when the ‘winger swap’ secret manoeuvre finally paid dividends. Granted, Steven Pienaar was only running at Ian Harte – if he turned up on Masters football you would say ‘Fucking hell, remember him for Leeds’ – but still the South African did brilliantly, cutting inside and smashing a swerving shot past Taylor.

Seven minutes later it was the turn of Mirallas, coming in from the left, who seized onto Pienaar’s through-ball, drew Tayor and cheekily slid his shot inside the near post. The Belgian’s been off-colour since returning from injury but here he looked like the sort of horribly skilful bastard who specialises in away goals against English sides in the Europa League.

On 83 minutes the Blues continued their record of not keeping a clean sheet since Paper Lace topped the charts as Hal Robson-Huth-Kanu headed home unmarked. Even Everton couldn’t blow it at that stage against such limited opposition though – indeed they might have extended their lead when the remarkably energised substitute Victor Anichebe went on a powerful run and beat Taylor, only for Harte to clear the ball off the line.

And that were that, cocker. Roll on Wigan, who in a tradition that goes back to Paul Jewell’s time in charge will play a blinder against us after rolling over against the other shower, you can guarantee it.

If you’ve got any sort of soul though you must be buzzing already in anticipation. This week’s going to drag like a bastard.

Soccer.

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